


When Jingles Met Jessie

by gvarchangel



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bard - Freeform, Crazy, Gen, Jester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 16:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gvarchangel/pseuds/gvarchangel
Summary: Another D&D inspired piece, this time from my latest creating. Our DM made an alternate future where the gods of Pathfinder vanished one day, world went to chaos for a century, whole lot of fun things. Short version is we got to make our own towns with characters from them. I made a bard college, though the party keeps calling it a cult. And I won't exactly argue with that interpretation.Anyway, a brief adventure of my new bard. Everyone, say hi to Jingles!Art belongs to Palavenmoons on Tumblr.





	When Jingles Met Jessie

“I don't know where you're going, but do you have room for one more troubled soul?” the costumed clown sings merrily, adding a strange joy to his lyrics. He makes it work, though. All of the passengers in the six uncovered carts, loaded down with laborers, merchants, and wares to peddle find themselves distracted from their dangerous predicament. In fact most are happily humming along with the chorus. It's what the Jinarr Trading Company hired the bard for, after all, and he is good at his job. “This is the road to ruin, and we're starting at the end.”

One man is noticeably ignoring the performance, instead watching the forest for signs of hostile life. Anwal has hardly moved from his seat beside the lead driver since they left town at dawn. The pale aasimar takes his job as seriously as the entertainer does: bandits on these roads are the least of their problems. Most of them aren't stupid enough to be this far from a pocket of civilization. It's the creatures that they should be worried about in these woods.

But the other riders are doing their best to forget that truth. They all grew up on tales of the monsters prowling the no man's lands between the tiny towns dotting their maps. Stories of the attic whispers still haunting the ruins of fallen cities, the impossibly fast gnolls waiting for the unprotected meals to walk by, the owlbears carrying entire carts to their nests. They all know it, and all try their best to ignore those fears as they ride through the sparse forest. The worry will drive them insane if they allow it. Thankfully, the patchwork clown in the center of their convoy is playing vibrantly enough to make them forget how close death is. “Let's be alone together, we can stay young forever. Scream it at the top of your lungs, lungs, lungs...”

 

The aasimar ranger signals them to stop. At the sign of her guide's raised fist, the lead driver whistles. All of the trailing handlers pull on their reigns, stopping the horses and carts. The group's attention has immediately shifted from the music to the claustrophobia inducing forest. Not that it stops the bard from playing more.

Anwal draws his bow, an arrow loosely notched as he drops down to the rough path. His green eyes scan the gently blowing trees at his sides before approaching the wreckage that caught his attention. What's left of a single caravan lays in pieces on the side of the road, the boulder through its center the obvious cause of its destruction. Dried blood and spilled wine decorates the wood. The broken bottles appear to be the only cargo left with the cart.

Half of a tiefling's body is sticking out from under one of the shattered wheels. Anwal leans towards the corpse and smells deeply, pressing two fingers to the flesh as a test. She's been dead for a few days, no more than a week. When the rock struck the cart, it trapped her underneath and hopefully killed her instantly. There are no other bodies here, only the blood of at least three other passengers. He has no way to know if that is the work of scavengers or the stone throwing highwayman.

 

“We need to disembark,” he says, returning to the caravan. “Something large is out here. If we continue to ride through, it will ambush us wherever it wishes.”

The dwarven leader and owner of the convoy glares down from her seat. “And what would you suggest then? We leave everything and walk, just hope to recoup my losses later?” Jinarr questions threateningly. She's known for her business sense, not her people skills.

The assimar is visibly irritated. “Do you question all of your employees when they are doing their jobs? Or just the ones you pay to keep you alive?”

“Just the holy boys like you who don't know their place. We are not abandoning the merchandise.” She has to shout over the bard's newest song, which is likely called “Dream On _,”_ considering how many times he's repeated the phrase.

“Fine... Give me half of your men, arm them with crossbows. I will lead them forward to scout. Follow ten minutes behind us, in case we do find what attacked the other cart.”

Jinarr seems to question where to tell him to shove the plan, but bites her tongue. Instead, she turns back to her crew and whistles again. “Everybody, arm up. Half of you go with holy boy.”

 

The first, and most enthusiastic, to join the ranger is the costumed bard. His pack is still on the cart, but his lute hangs tightly to his back. He raises his hand in a sloppy salute. “What're we killin', cap'n?” he asks through a chuckle.

Anwal tries to wave him away. “Get back on the caravan, clown. I don't need an entertainer slowing us down.”

This time, the response is a full laugh in the ranger's face. He produces a sickle, razor sharp and glistening in the sunlight, as well as a quarterstaff with obvious signs of wear. “And I suppose you think these are only for performances then? That would be a show for the ages.”

“The clown's paid to protect us, same as you,” Jinarr explains smugly. “He just comes with free entertainment.”

 

“Interesting...” the assimar says slowly, examining the costumed man before him. Actually, even that is only an assumption. The outfit is a patchwork of various crimsons and browns, sewn together haphazardly to cover every piece of the creature wearing it. Strategically placed bulk to the costume hints at leather armor beneath, and pockets are scattered across the body for storage. But even those and the belt for weapons can't make it look any less ridiculous.

What naturally draws the attention though is the mask. A traditional pantomime mask, featuring openings only for the eyes, is almost impossible to look away from. Not because of the pure white wood, and not because of the traditional jester cap partially covering it. It's the piercing cobalt eyes staring back at him. Anwal has never seen such vibrant color in a creature's eyes before. It vaguely reminds him of a glowworm's light, distracting prey as they fly into the waiting webs.

It makes him an interesting man to look at, and certainly to watch perform, but it does not hint at experience hunting monsters. Anwal is not thrilled by the idea of a clown assisting him in a fight.

 

“You've never met one of us, have you?” the bard asks, then chuckles seemingly to himself. “A shame, really. I'm told we Jesters are great company on long trips.”

The ranger allows a raised eyebrow. “There are more of you?”

“Whole college of the weird little shits,” Jinarr says. “They're reliable, come with free shows. I need to get a few of them under contract some day.”

A slight clinking of bells signals the Jester's shaking head. “Not this day, not while there are other adventures waiting for me. But where are my manners? My name is Jingles, my good sir. I stand ready to provide a sharp blade and musical support.” He gives a grand bow, complete with a dipped back foot and waved hand.

“I need a raise...” Anwal grumbles to himself. But he accepts he could use the help. A bard is useful for the magical inspiration. And he feels it is safer to keep the Jester where he can watch him. “Fine. Bring the essentials, what you need for magic. Do your best not to... jingle too much.”

 

“Fear not!” he proclaims, then plucks the bells from the ends of his cap. They fall into a small pouch, which he promptly tosses onto the cart. “Now, I ask again, sir Anwal. What shall we be hunting in these woods?”

The ranger looks behind his strange companion and sees the others have finally gathered. His half of the crew is armed nervously with crossbows, crowding closer to hear what he says.

“Some kind of giant, if I had to guess,” he says calmly. “We're far enough from mountains and volcanoes to rule out stone, cloud, and fire giants, but there are plenty of others. Whatever it is, it threw a boulder hard enough to destroy a carriage. Something that size we need to keep distance from, and hope the next rock misses. Those are easier to dodge than being stepped on.”

“Whoever brings me its head gets a bonus,” the dwarven master cheers. Clearly her peoples' natural hate for the creatures runs hot in her.

“Hopefully, we won't run into it. This is only a precaution,” Anwal reminds.

Jingles chuckles again, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Where is the fun in that thinking?”

The ranger shakes his head. “My group will quietly scout ahead of the caravans. If anything tries to kill us, we kill it instead. Otherwise, we get back into the cart in a mile, once we're out of its territory. Any questions?”

There are none. Anwal then leads his small group of six laborers and one clown through the thicket flanking the rough road.

 

The group makes surprisingly little noise as they trek through the underbrush. Anwal stays low and quiet, letting his angelic eyes search for threats ahead. Jingles follows closely behind with a twirling sickle in hand. While his cloth outfit is bright in the daylight, he keeps up with surprising stealth. The crew moves almost silently by using the same steps as those in front of them. Even the halfling laborer is able to keep up with the large steps of his leaders without making much sound.

A half mile passes without activity, hardly even songbirds in the trees. When the ranger finally takes note of this, it's already too late for him. The group, crouched in thicket between main road and a clearing, has barely enough cover to hide in. When a human trips and stumbles into the woman in front of him, they both grunt. Combined with the broken twigs under their feet, it's enough to gain the attention of something much bigger.

Anwal, turning back to chastise his group, disappears when the blur of a boulder tears through the grass. Jingles feels rock almost graze his mask and rolls towards what threw it. He stands out of the brush, staring down a literal giant with only his sickle in hand. It's technically a cyclops, but close enough.

 

“Stupid merchants! My road!” the thing roars. Approaching with another rock to pelt the intruders, he cuts the distance down from a hundred feet to sixty in moments.

Jingles smiles beneath his mask, swapping his weapon for his lute. “Stand and fight, comrades! I've seen larger!” he rallies. His voice booms, far louder than it should naturally as he walks forward.

The cyclops screams, “Off my road, out of my field!” It hurls a boulder roughly the size of a dwarf towards Jingles without breaking stride.

Adding a spin to his dodge, Jingles looks like a dancer as the rock sails past him. He moves at an angle away from his support still scrambling out of the brush. His hand raises from his lute, pointing at the cyclops. “The perfect trinity: blind, ugly, and stupid!”

Those unfamiliar with the spell Vicious Mockery wouldn't understand how words could hurt a creature over fifteen feet tall, but the results are hard to ignore. It stops running to grab its head as pain pulses through its feeble mind. It throws a rock the size of a house cat, but this flies only vaguely in the direction of the caravan crew. None bother ducking as they ready their weapons.

 

Forty feet separate the two forces now, a dancing clown dividing the distance almost evenly. Rather than attacking, his fingers find the strings of his lute. He begins a blistering solo, creating music doesn't seem possible with the instrument, harmonies that can't be from this world. Four of the six archers feel the energy of the song in their bodies and the raw bravery coursing through their veins. They channel that into a volley of bolts at the cyclops. One catches the creature in the neck, three add holes to its chest, and one pierces a thigh. Only one shot sails wide.

“Die for that!” Now beyond rage, the monster tries one last time to bowl the insects over with a rock. This time, it's not the headache that makes him miss, but the music. It can feel the tune wriggling into his mind, making it see things. Visions of a strange city flash across its sight, a ruin where the walls don't meet at the angles they should. The distraction makes the final rock toss go the entirely wrong direction.

“Aim for the chest!” Jingles roars. Not shouts: roars almost like the creature he's fighting. He puts his lute on his back, opting instead to wield a sickle and dagger. As he closes the distance between them, he points to the sky above the cyclops. An orb of pure darkness fills the air, sucking the light from the day. The creature's head and shoulders disappear into the sphere, but most of its torso is still plain as day.

 

The bard's magic may have worn off, but his effect is still pushing the crew. He's hurting the creature's mind without even touching it. How can they lose with him on their side? They open another volley of bolts at the monster, letting their overconfidence get the best of them. Only one strikes the creature in the chest, just below the magic sphere. The rest try to aim for the top of the chest and head, all missing their targets entirely.

Now blind for reasons it can't understand, the cyclops swings wildly in hopes of hitting the small clown it saw somewhere near its feet. Jingles dodges each swing easily, then hooks into the creature's thigh with his blades. He laughs as his weapons glow, the dagger black and sickle a deep purple. “Something for the body and the mind!”

Instantly, the leg shows signs of a severe infection, as if it's rotting off instantly. What's not visible is the new pain in the cyclops' head: its brain burns as it's flooded with the clown's howling laughter.

As another four crossbow bolts sail past the creature and two find their mark in its shoulders, it makes a directed punch at the pain in its leg. Jingles rotates to take the hit as a glance rather than squarely, but it's still enough to launch him across the field. He lands with a dislocated shoulder some ten feet away. The concentration he held to keep the darkness is broken, and the sphere disappears.

 

“Should have run!” the cyclops screams at the small creatures before it. It's tired of these intruders on his road, especially after all they pain they've caused. It's more than ready for payback and a snack. Taking one step forward, it lowers himself into a charging stance.

As the crew take off for the bushes, a voice roars across the forest. “They are mine, you insolent fool!”

Turning towards the sound, the cyclops almost gasps at the sight. The clown is not only up, he's bigger! Easily ten feet tall, he's almost as large as the cyclops. He holds his blades at either side, an invitation in any language. “What else have you got!?”

Overcoming its surprise, the creature pivots and charges the giant clown. It makes the conscious decision to kill him quickly as it remembers the pain and laughter in its mind. It won't make the mistake of giving him a chance to do magic again. So at one step away, the cyclops lowers its shoulder and leaps at the clown for a tackle, intending to knock him to the ground and crush his face.

But instead, it goes through the clown. No resistance, no cold feeling, nothing. On the way down, it gets a brief glance at a normal size Jester standing beside the big one, pulling his shoulder back into place. The cyclops slams into the ground at full speed, stunning itself when it slides into a tree.

 

A fire scorches across the cyclops' face. Still dazed from the fall, its attempt to roll away is only a flail. Jingles is laughing again, pure mania in his voice as flames erupt from his hands. “What's wrong, little one? Was that your good eye?”

Finally finding its coordination, the cyclops pushes itself off the ground a moment too late. The bard is attached to his neck now, holding onto a tuft of hair at the back of its head. As it reaches back to swat him away, he hears a final chuckle.

“Thanks for the adventure.” The snap of fingers is the last sound it hears before the Shatter spell liquifies the brain in its head.

Most of the fleeing caravan members stop when they hear the sudden ringing noise from behind. Two of them turn where they are in confusion, while three others hide behind trees before risking a look. The final member continues running towards the convoy. His companions are treated to the sight of a dead cyclops with bleeding ears while a clown rides the crumbling corpse. It falls with a thud, causing a small tremor before laying flat on the ground. Jingles bows from atop the creature as if it were a stage.

 

“Now... other than the one who left a trail of piss, which of you is the fastest?” the clown asks with a breathy laugh.

Looks are exchanged between the halfling, two humans, the elf, and a dwarf. The elf slowly raises his hand.

Jingles pats him on the shoulder. “Tell our boss the monster has been dealt with. We need a priest for our dead guide, and an ale for my shoulder. Can you manage that, pretty please?”

Suddenly, the first boulder thrown at the group is propelled back the way it came from. Holy light pours from the crater it made, the aasimar marching out of it. Glorious wings protrude from Anwal's back, and his eyes have just as much illumination behind them. He's traded his shattered bow for a long sword almost as shiny as the wielder.

“Hmm... Forget the priest, not the ale,” Jingles chuckles lightly, then nudges his courier towards the caravan. “I didn't stutter, did I? Go on, shoo.”

The elf takes the hint and leaves at a decent jog.

 

The now angelic ranger looks over the field and seems slightly disappointed. “How long was I out?” he asks, still glowing.

Jingles shrugs with one shoulder. “A minute. No one died, other than what was supposed to.”

He glances over to the crumpled heap that was the cyclops. A part of his mind notes Jingles' eyes are a deep orange, and swears they were they blue before. “Did the crew do that?”

“They fired the arrows. Feel free to ask them who did the most work.”

“Well, good... Thank you for helping,” he admits slowly. As the radiant light fades away, Anwal notices the clown favoring his injured shoulder. He uses a bit of his magic and holy power to put Jingles back together.

The Jester pats his comrade's side. “I appreciate that, as well as getting up before we tried to bury you.”

“You're welcome,” the aasimar says, removing the hand from his body. “Shall we take the others back to the convoy?”

“Do as you wish. But I wager the cyclops' cave has some trinkets, and I've done more than enough to earn first pick. Our employer can divide the takings after I've found my souvenir.” With another nod and bow, Jingles walks across the clearing towards a hole in the hill. Anwal tries his best to ignore how badly he was shown up by a clown as he heads for confused laborers.

 

The cave must have been a tight squeeze for the cyclops when it wasn't sleeping. Divided into a central chamber with three small alcoves, it's obvious what purpose each served. The left holds a fire pit for cooking, and the back is too full of crushed leaves to be anything other than a bed. On the right is the creature's collection, thrown into a rough pile taller than the bard. Judging by the glistening baubles scattered throughout, it had only gathered the random things that caught its eye.

Jingles absently plays riffs on his lute as he investigates, occasionally poking the pile with his foot. He watches several snow globes roll down as he disturbs the stack's balance, along with a silver wheel and a candelabra. Pretty in a gaudy sort of way, but nothing of value. There's not even anything small for him to carry as a souvenir. Maybe he'll have to settle for a tooth from the cyclops.

Circling the loot, something to the side finally catches his cobalt eye. A beautiful lute is leaned against the wall. The cyclops took great care to set it here, somehow understanding the value of the instrument. Jingles puts his own lute away and approaches the treasure slowly with an outstretched hand. A little voice in his head tells him to be careful, even if he doesn't know why.

 

It's a bandore actually, not a standard lute. The scallop shaped body is as much a giveaway as the extra length to the neck. As the clown's covered fingers graze the strings, he feels the instrument resist. Not the feeling of physically touching something else, but it pushing back. The instrument itself is magical, almost alive with energy. And it's not happy someone is touching it.

“You're not like the others,” Jingles whispers. “No, you have fangs. Don't you, love?”

He firmly wraps his hand around the neck of the bandore. He feels the energy again, this time stronger and fighting his mind. It would hurt almost anyone else. But either Jingles' magic or his manic mind shields him from the pain. The only result is the urge to laugh more.

“It's ok... Don't be afraid. We'll get along wonderfully. I already know it,” he coos.

 

Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Jingles notes how he doesn't need to adjust the length at all. He practices a quick riff, feeling the instrument fight him again. But there is less resistance this time, less violence in the response.

“Atta girl, Jessie. There's a doomed world of adventure waiting for us out there. Would you care to accompany me?” he asks lovingly.

He strums a chord, and Jessie answers beautifully. It seems to welcome the contact, the chance to make music with a proper player. A pleasant, gentle tingle of magic flows through the bard.

Jingles smiles beneath his mask. “Here's to a wonderful partnership.”

 

 


End file.
